So it's understandable that "Celia: My Life," the singer's as-told-to autobiography with writer Ana Cristina Reymundo, doesn't fulfill all the expectations one might have for the authorized story of the legendary "Queen of Salsa," who died of cancer a year ago at age 78.

What the anecdote-laden, first-person account lacks in sophisticated historical perspective is outweighed by how effectively it reflects the singer's exuberant spirit.

It's evident that Cruz always embraced life with joy and optimism, even when faced with the heartbreaking political oppression of her native Cuba or serious health problems that would eventually take her life. That spirit was reflected in the vibrant music that made the world dance to the singer's salsa beat.

Among those influenced was acclaimed poet Maya Angelou. She praises Cruz in the book's forward as "an artist who belonged to all people, all the time, everywhere," on a list with Old Testament biblical figures, Aesop, Shakespeare and Louis Armstrong.

Cruz's own words are framed by equally reverent essays by author Reymundo and by the singer's longtime business manager, Omer Pardillo. In her prologue, Reymundo acknowledges that "the mere mention of Cuba brings to mind the images of two individuals: one who will inevitably be condemned to the annals of infamy; and Celia Cruz, who will always sparkle in the constellation of superstars."

In an epilogue that goes behind the scenes at massive public tributes after the singer's death, Pardillo assesses the source of Cruz's flamboyant attitude: "Where there is real love, there is no room for fear," he writes. "Therefore, Celia did not fear anyone."

Least of all Fidel Castro.

The ordinarily gracious Cruz addresses the Cuban dictator with disdain in her words, recounting an instance when she defied the leader by refusing his invitation for a meeting in 1959. Later that year, she would forfeit an evening's pay for not performing his request for "Burundanga" at a concert.

She recalls in the book her response to show producers: "If I have to belittle myself to make money, I'd rather not have any."

In "Celia," Cruz explains that her initial disrespect for Castro was rooted in his destruction of free artistic expression.

"He had turned what once was beautiful into a weapon to control others."

Cruz, who fled Cuba in 1960 to expand her career in Mexico, Spain and the United States, never lost her anger toward Castro. Nor did she abandon hope that she might return to a free Cuba one day.

More than tales of working with Cuba's renowned Sonora Matancera Orchestra or such acclaimed musicians as Tito Puente, it's this passion about her homeland that is the heart of Cruz's story.

Her account of finally returning to the island for a 1990 concert at the U.S. Naval base at Guantanamo Bay is filled with sadness and joy. It's a description that involves all the senses, from the touch of the warm island breezes to the sight of swaying palms and the texture of the Cuban soil.

At the base, Cruz remembers, she reached her hand through the chain-link fence to scoop a handful of dirt into a tiny pouch. The singer asked that, if she died before the island regained its freedom, the dirt be placed inside her casket.

"All I could think of was returning to a free Cuba as a free woman," she writes, "and enjoying my life in peace, as is my birthright."

Cruz never made that triumphant journey, but her legacy is a colorful contrast to the dark history of the Castro regime. In "Celia," it shines as bright as ever.